


Sensate

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ...eventually, Abuse of Tranquils, Emotional Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquil Anders, curing tranquility, graphic descriptions of rape/non-con, kink meme fill, pov switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Circles are no more.Anders thinks that he would have felt overjoyed about that, once upon a time. Perhaps it would have been like his heart soaring when he had made his first escape from Kinloch Hold. Or maybe it would have felt like the first time Karl had kissed him, chest restricting, breaths coming in short spasms. Maybe it would have even felt like the first time Hawke had held his hand, and many more times after that, that unmistakeable pumping of blood from his heart to his head to his feet, warming him both inside and outside.He doesn’t know for sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt at the kink meme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16884.html?thread=64151796#t64151796
> 
> "Anders is caught and made Tranquil post-DA2. Eventually rescued by either Fenris and/or a male Hawke.
> 
> Following the DAI discovery that Tranquillity can be cured, they take him to the Seekers/Casandra and cure him.
> 
> Hurt/Comfort ensues."
> 
> Take heed the tags and warnings and read at your own discretion.

The Circles are no more. 

Anders thinks that he would have felt overjoyed about that, once upon a time. Perhaps it would have been like his heart soaring when he had made his first escape from Kinloch Hold. Or maybe it would have felt like the first time Karl had kissed him, chest restricting, breaths coming in short spasms. Maybe it would have even felt like the first time Hawke had held his hand, and many more times after that, that unmistakeable pumping of blood from his heart to his head to his feet, warming him both inside and outside.

He doesn’t know for sure.

Anders doesn’t feel much of anything these days.

“Doesn’t that make you happy, Anders?” The templar holding his leash asks, voice sickeningly sweet. Anders wonders why the templar is bothering to ask in the first place when he obviously knows the answer already. 

“No, Ser.” Anders replies placidly, because it’s the truth.

“Well, it seems like you can teach an old dog new tricks after all.” The templar says making the other templars titter with cruel laughter. He tugs on his end of the leash, a scratchy thing made from a length of rope and some chains. Anders doesn’t understand why they even bother, it’s not like he’s going to run away.

A particularly sharp tug sends Anders toppling down to his knees and he just manages to catch himself with both hands. A shock of stinging pain jolts up his arms, the rough stone floors cutting up his palms.

“Come on then.” The templar tugs on his leash once more. It chafes Anders’ neck. Anders crawls forward until he’s between the templar’s legs. 

The bits of rock and sand that grits into Anders’ cut up palms hurt. But such little pricks are inconsequential compared to choking on a cock whose owner cares little for the mouth he’s fucking. And it will hurt even more when they kick him in the stomach for not being able to keep down their cum that always comes too fast and too deep no matter how much Anders prepares himself. 

So when the templar opens up his robes, Anders takes it obediently. It will hurt more if he says no. Anders has had to make that mistakes only once.

-

Hawke misses Anders. It’s been three years since he’s told Anders to leave Kirkwall, to leave _him_. Though truth be told, Hawke doesn’t know if he simply misses Anders or just the feeling of loving and being loved back. No matter how bright and warm his days with Anders might have been, the the ache in his heart is all-consuming. 

It’s been three years since he’s cradled this black hole in his soul.

In the beginning, Hawke’s filled it with anger, anger at Anders and his betrayal, _Maker_ , why hadn’t Anders trusted him? Then he turned to the anger at mages and templars, violence erupting no matter where he travelled. But Anders had been right, hadn’t he? The Conclave of First Enchanters at White Spire and The Annulment of Dairsmuid only fueling the fire between the Circles and the Chantry more than Kirkwall ever could. Still, Hawke threw his outrage into the fathomless pit in in his heart. When even that hadn’t been enough, he turned to self-hatred. 

He should have been able to stop it. Hawke was the Champion, people had depended on him, put their lives into his hands and he had let them all down. He had let Bethany down, then Carver, then Mother. He had let Anders down. 

His anger had then turned to guilt, then to sorrow. His emotions haunt him, ever-present, like a shadow. He tries to lose himself in the miles stretched between Kirkwall and wherever he is now, he helps and hunts and drinks and fucks and kills until he feels dead on his feet but it’s never enough.

Some days, Hawke wonders how it would feel like to be turned Tranquil, to not feel anything at all. Would he find relief, or would he not feel that as well?

-

Pain.

Anders’ life seems to exist in stages of pain, his days marked only by pain or the absence of it. Despite his state of emotionlessness, Anders does not like being hurt and would like to avoid it as much as he can. 

Or rather, perhaps it is because of his state of emotionlessness that he can no longer endure pain. He remembers working through the aches in his joints and the tiredness of his eyes, the gnawing hunger that was as constant as the drumming headache inside his skull. 

Pain was inconsequential then. He had been a different man.

Pain is everything. His life has been narrowed down to a singular purpose: how to avoid pain. It is the only thing he can think about now, the only thing he is allowed to think about.

A templar wedges his thigh between Anders’ legs. He spreads them without protest.

The templar takes him roughly, gauntleted hands leaving fresh bruises on his neck where the templar is choking him. Anders struggles to breathe out of instinct and receives with a backhanded blow to his face. The blow leaves his ears ringing.

Someone tsks by the doorway. Another templar.

“Now now, Anders, haven’t we taught you to be better than that?” The templar says, walking into Anders’ cell. 

“Yes, Ser.” Anders answers.

The templar behind Anders maneuvers him so that Anders is now on his hands and knees, the templar still inside his ass. The man in front of him bends down and grabs Anders by the chin, forcing him to look up into his eyes.

“And what do you say?” The templar asks.

“I’m sorry, Ser.” Anders says dutifully. 

“Good.” The templar squeezes Anders cheeks, there is a sting from where his cheeks have been split open when the other templar hit him. Anders relaxes his mouth and lets the templar push his cock between his split lips. 

At least he’s not being choked anymore, Anders thinks.

-

Hawke stops at a town just large enough for there to be a small inn that also doubles as a local watering hole. A Merchant’s Guild dwarf wearing a tunic spattered with ale stains flags him down and hands him a letter from Varric. 

He reads the first sentence, something about a Seeker and being en route to some place called Haven where the Divine’s conclave will be held, and decides to save the letter for later. It doesn’t look urgent and Hawke’s had a rather long day dispatching some rebel mages and templars who decides to take their fight in the local farms. 

Hawke turns to the barkeep to order a hot meal and possibly the strongest drink they’ve got.

Then the sky splits open.

Hawke runs out with all other bar patrons to see the massive, swirling green _something_ loom over the sky. There is a deafening crack, like thunder had struck just behind him, except it’s something else entirely. A green bolt streaks out from the great rift in the sky, charged with what Hawke can only guess is Fade energy, and races over and past their heads. The rift spits out more of those bolts, some running in the opposite direction, some to the west, and the east, completely random. One comes flying in their general direction, and Hawke thinks for a second that it’s going to go overhead like the first bolt, but then it falls, like a falling star.

Hawke remembers the first time he’s had to face down a full-grown dragon. It spat great big balls of fire that rained down on them, knocked Aveline flat off her feet, her shield and all.

Somehow it feels exactly like that, watching the bright green Fade energy fly towards him. Hawke is rooted to the spot, panic clawing at his throat, he can’t breathe-

“Watch out!” Someone shouts.

Hawke only just manages to throw himself to the side before the bolt hits the exact spot where he had been standing.

Except it doesn’t hit the ground, rather, it hits the air above the ground, like hitting a solid, invisible wall. It distorts the air around it, bends light and space, _Hawke doesn’t know how_ , contorting reality until it tears in a flash of blinding green light. 

Then, of course, because Hawke’s life can never be simple, there are demons.

At least Hawke manages to wrangle a free meal and board from the grateful barkeep.

-

Something’s in the air has changed.

Anders doesn’t know exactly what it is, as he has not been outside the run down keep the Templars are taking residency in. If he had his connections to the Fade, Anders thinks, perhaps he would know what exactly it is. But he does not and Anders figures it’s best to leave it alone.

Except the Templars know it too, feels the change. They talk excitedly now about something called the Breach, Therinfal Redoubt, about lyrium (though that had been major topics of conversation before too). There is sort of a nervous energy in the keep, it makes the Templars restless. 

Anders finds what little respite he has been granted before, taken away.

After nearly three years of holing themselves up in the keep, some templars venture out, itching for a fight. Some return with burns and frostbites, some do not. Those that choose to remain inside fight amongst themselves over baited insults and bits of ration, and dwindling supply of lyrium. Anders patches them up best he can with bandages and old salves when they end up drawing blood from each other. 

The ones that do not go out or fight, fuck. Some fuck each other, but most turn their attention to Anders.

“Because you’re easy, aren’t you, Anders?” They ask and Anders tells them yes. Anders supposes that he is.

Then someone new comes to their keep, just a few handfuls of more unfamiliar templars, their armor shining and well-kept. These new templars do not touch Anders, barely sparing him a glance. If Anders had the capacity to do so, he knows he would feel glad. Instead it is just another small note in his mind. They carry a heavy looking chest between them. It’s locked but Anders doesn’t need to look inside to see what it contains. Thin, fragile veins of lyrium creeping out from the gaps in the wood, they seem to pulse, slithering out of the chest like snakes when he looks from the corner of his eyes.

The lyrium is red.

Anders tries to warn the templars. He remembers what it did to Bartrand’s mind and he remembers what it did to Meredith’s body. But, as Anders expected, they do not listen.

The templars do not fight over the blue lyrium anymore, there is enough red in the chest for all of them and the world.

-

Hawke receives another letter from Varric. 

He’s in a different town, this one almost as big as a proper city, with protective walls and forged gates. There are demons everywhere he goes. Sometimes, he would not run into one for days, other times, he’s fighting them one after another in an endless battle. But the sight of destruction that the demons leave in their wake is inescapable. 

This town fares better than the small village he’s come from, but only a little.

The city guard is ill-equipped to handle such threats and any templars or mages that could have helped have long since fled, from the Circle, and from the Chantry. Yet the refugees that Hawke has been escorting are relieved by the sight of armored men fighting against demons made of flames and shadow, of the walls surrounding the town. They make their stop here, the refugees tell Hawke.

Another Merchant’s Guild dwarf bearing the letter finds Hawke, exhausted and wanting nothing but sleep.

He makes the mistake of reading the letter before bed. Varric is, in Hawke’s opinion, needlessly detailed with his descriptions. Jagged spikes of red lyrium and burnt husks of bodies refuse to leave his thoughts. Raining demons from sundered skies, dead Divine and the Herald of Andraste- Hawke worries for Varric, then worries for Anders.

Where was Anders, where had he gone? Had Anders been at the Conclave when it was destroyed?

Hawke does not sleep that night, or the next, despite the soft mattress and the hearty meals. 

-

In the beginning, back when the brand upon his forehead was still tender and covered in bandages, there were still kind templars. The ones that stripped him of his bloodied coat and put him in new, fresh robes, told him to eat, told the other, harsher templars to stop hitting him, _he’s had enough._

Did the kinder templars not know what Anders had done? He had asked then. They had, one of them answered, a woman whose voice was young and soft. She touched his cheek, the one that was not bleeding, and gathered his hair into a familiar ponytail. 

“Why do you stop them?” Anders asked her, out of genuine curiosity.

“Because it is not my place to judge or to punish.” She had replied. 

She left that night, right after she told Anders that she was going back to Kirkwall to face whatever that would be coming to the city. 

“I’m sorry,” was the last thing he had said to her, though he did not know how to mean it anymore.

-

Hawke sees less of the rebel mages now, the bulk of them had allied with the newly formed Inquisition gathered into Redcliff, the last he’s heard. Other scattered handfuls had by now, disappeared into the wind, melded into villages and cities, or perhaps set out on their own into the wilderness. 

Templars are an entirely different story.

Hawke had fought- and killed- templars before, the one who were terrorizing refugees and resorting to killing innocents to battle the rebel mages. Hawke had experience in dealing with them even from his time in Kirkwall, he knew how they held their shield, he knew their habits for better or worse, and Hawke knew how to get past their defenses. 

Most of them, Hawke found, though zealous in their beliefs and strong with their swords, laid down and surrendered when faced with a blade to the throat. 

Not these Templars.

He has them beat, there is no doubt about that. He’s knocked out two templars in the first minutes with a well-aimed lightning bolt, a third with a lucky shot to the head. The fourth one has dropped his sword and is trying to defend himself with his shield.

Hawke knocks that out of the templar’s hands with a swing of his staff.

He presses the bladed end to the seam between the templar’s chest plate and helmet, just enough pressure to threaten without cutting skin.

“Yield.” Hawke tells him.

The templar’s shoulders slump and Hawke relaxes his grip minutely.

Then the templar jumps up at Hawke. Hawke feels the distinct sensation of something catching on the blade. 

Hawke curses, surprised, as the templar tackles them both to the ground, knocking Hawke’s staff out of his hands. Blood pours down from when the blade had cut his neck but the templar doesn’t stop, he claws at Hawke’s face with gauntleted hands, teeth gnashing inside the helmet like he’s trying to bite Hawke. 

Hawke holds the templar away from him, just barely. It feels like wrestling a mad mabari than a man. He releases a weak, unfocused jolt of electricity from his fingers in an effort to shake the templar’s grip on him but the templar simply does not care. 

Hawke digs his heels into the ground and _heaves_ , rolling the templar off of him. Hawke’s arms strain at the effort but he throws himself at his fallen staff, adrenaline fueling him. 

The templar is immediately on him again. Hawke thrusts the staff blade towards the mad templar in an attempt to stop him in his tracks-

A sickening sound of blade cutting through flesh-

The templar impales himself on Hawke’s staff in a senseless attempt to attack Hawke. 

It does not take long for the templar to bleed out.

It comes no surprise to Hawke that he finds carefully hidden vials of red lyrium inside the templar’s armor.

 

-

 

Most of the kind templars had eventually left, some when back to Kirkwall before the group had strayed too far from it, some went back to their families, and other to join different templars in different cities. 

Until only one remained.

He was a young thing, his voice had been barely past adolescence then, only starting to mature into manhood. He looked unsure of his place within the Templars, and having not enough conviction in neither his beliefs nor the righteousness of the Chantry, he remained with this particular group of rogue templars. Anders guessed they were the only familiar faces that he knew. 

He had a pale face with a smattering of acne scars and a lopsided, toothy grin that became less frequent in its appearance as days passed. 

The other templars had teased him, taunted him, perhaps much like older brothers would, Anders observed, though he had no point of reference to compare to, except perhaps the handful times he had seen Hawke and Carver together. He was the youngest of all the templars, called Kid or Boy, more often than his actual name. Naturally, he was tasked with all the chores that no one wanted to do and weren’t assigned to Anders. This included keeping watch on Anders.

“I don’t know why I should even bother.” He used to say in those quiet nights when it was just him and Anders in the firelight. “It’s not like you’re going to run away, are you?”

“No, Ser.” Anders would say.

He was always nicer when they were alone, away from the other templars taunting him.

But the other templar always pushed too much, pushed too hard.

“Say, Kid,” one of them said one night, tucking himself back in after he had finished with Anders., “Aren’t you still a virgin?” 

He blushed deep crimson, the color that made his acne scars and freckles pop like spots on a cat. He stammered something, something that made the other templars laugh an unkind sound that only made him blush redder.

“Why don’t you give it a go on our Anders here, he wouldn’t mind, now would you?” Another one asked, nudging Anders with his foot.

Without waiting for Anders’ answer, the templar reached down and hauled Anders up so that he was kneeling, rather than sprawled out on the stone floor. A slimy mixture of oil and come dripped out of his hole. The templar leaned Anders on his chest so that Anders was sitting against him, thighs splayed open and naked. 

“Sure he’s a little used…” The templar trailed his cold hands down Anders’ chest. “But he’s got a pretty face.” He squeezed Anders’ cheeks with the other hand.

“I don’t really want to do it with _him_ ,” The young templar said, voice trembling with uncertainty.

“Think you’re too good for a tranquil or something?” Asked a templar who had liked to fuck Anders on a regular basis. 

“No, no, it’s not that.” The kid answered back quickly.

“You shy, kid? Come on, it’s not like we don’t know what you’re hiding under that skirt,” said someone. 

“It’s not like you’re can pull someone as pretty as our Anders here by yourself,” said another.

“I think he needs a bit of convincing, don’t you think?” The templar holding up Anders had whispered in his ear. So Anders’ dragged his tired arms and legs, knees scraping on the stone. He crawled up to the kid, an apt name for how young he had looked then, his big round eyes pleading, terrified.

Anders reached up to his belt and daftly unbuckled it but the kid held on to them before Anders could slide them down. 

“Shit,” the kid said, the word caught at the end of his breath.

“Fuck.” He swore again, louder this time. He pried Anders’ fingers off of his belt and grabbed both of Anders’ wrists. It hurt.

The kid pushed Anders, hard. Unprepared, Anders fell backwards, hard enough to crack his head on the stone floor. 

Anders felt his hands on his ankles, bending his knees and spreading him wide open. He heard the templars whistle and jeer. He felt the kid entering him, rough and inexperienced. It was uncomfortable and painful, despite the fact he had been oiled wet and opened up from the templars before.

It did not take long for the kid to finish, his hips stuttering in jerky, inexperienced strokes. He emptied himself inside Anders and quickly withdrew. 

The kid did not meet Anders in the eyes anymore. 

For a moment Anders thought to tell the kid that it was okay, he hadn’t done anything bad. Anders saw himself putting a hand on the kid’s arm, _it’s okay_. 

He had not.

The kid now glows red for a different reason now. He is no longer kind, he has no regard for anything but lyrium. 

No one is kind to Anders anymore, not for a while now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as Chapter 1 applies. 200% more POV switching.

The Merchant's Guild runner catches up with him in a nondescript traveler's inn on the side of a road a on the night of Haven's destruction. It had been packed full of refugees, escaping from both the Orlesian civil war and the raining demons from the sky. He had heard the celestial clap and felt the rippling shockwaves that jolted him awake from the exhausted slumber he had fallen into that night.

The sky, though dark and still tinted with the sickly greenish hue was now missing the swirling portal that Hawke had almost gotten used to seeing, after all these months. 

The Herald of Andraste, it seemed, had been successful in closing the Rift. Of course, the news of destruction of Haven immediately after had travelled even faster than the exhausted looking dwarf ever could. 

The refugees at the inn rejoiced, then despaired. They feared for the Herald, prayed to Andraste to deliver him from mortal peril. And Hawke, for all his admiration for the man Varric had described 'was doing his best to clean up Blondie's mess,' could feel only pity for him. The weight of a city had been heavy enough, the Herald had the entire world watching, placing both their hopes and despair on his back. 

Varric's letter is mostly about closing the Rift and the Redcliffe mages, a little bit about peculiar characters the Herald had chosen to keep company. _Reminds me a little bit of you actually_ , Varric writes and Hawke smiles. It feels like a lifetime ago that he's smiles. Hawke hopes that Varric is okay.

-

Most of the templars are dead. 

Some take too much lyrium and die of poisoning, some are killed by other templars in senseless violence the lyrium drives them to. 

"Please, take the red out," one of the templars sobs.

"I'm sorry, I cannot do that." Anders tells him. The templar wails and lunges at Anders, grabbing his neck. He starts squeezing Anders' neck making Anders kick out his leg out of instinct. Anders tries to pry the templar's fingers from his neck but the templar is strong, perhaps unnaturally so, and Anders doesn't remember the last time he's eaten something. 

Tears, wet and warm splashes on Anders' face. The templar is crying.

Anders decides to stop fighting. His lungs and chest still continue their fruitless efforts to draw breath but he lets his arms and legs go lose.

Then something big and _strong_ rips the templar off of Anders. It flings the templar to the side, making him collide with the wall with a sickening crack. The templar twitches and then stops moving.

Dead.

Anders gulps the air in, his own tears blurring his vision, his heart fluttering.

He looks up into the face of his savior and for a second sees only the twisted cluster of red lyrium. It takes him a moment to find anything resembling a human face there, skull already bent out of shape by lyrium pushing it’s way out. One of the eyes have been pushed off to the far right of its face- it looks dead and useless, Anders thinks that the connecting tissues have been severed by the ingrown lyrium. The other eye glows bright and red, it blinks slowly at Anders. Everything else has been replaced by lyrium- nothing else of the human that it might have been is left.

In the small patches of pale skin that still cling to the frame like ragged remains of clothing, Anders can make out the faint peppering of acne scars. 

The red behemoth shuffles next to Anders, dragging its massive arm behind it. Anders can feel the heat of the red lyrium through his thin, worn robes. It stays there, within an arm’s length of Anders, unmoving, like a grotesque statue once more.

None of the other templars touch Anders after that.

-

Varric sends a hastily scrawled note, with directions to Skyhold and the just the word _Corypheus._

-

 

When there is only a handful of templars left, more shows up. They are the same templars that had bought the crate of red lyrium into the keep, Anders recognizes their voice. 

"A pity." One of them comments, looking around the dead templars, jagged red crystals making their bodies almost unrecognizable. 

They start rounding up the surviving templars- those that did not succumb to the growing crystals in their bones became quiet, they did not sleep or eat that Anders had noticed, the only proof of their life a shallow breath taken slowly. 

“And the Tranquil is still alive too, I see,” one of the templar half laughs, reaching out to Anders, “I thought for sure you were going to be dead when we came back.”

The behemoth, so far unrecognized from a cluster of red lyrium that had spread to the keep walls, growls threateningly.

“And I see why.” The templar withdraws his hand. 

“Should we take the Tranquil with us, then?” He asks another.

“To Sarhnia? What would we do with him there?”

“We can always give him to the Venatori,” The templar shrugs, “They’re rounding up a bunch of them.”

“Samson won’t like that.” The other templar replies.

“So then we kill him before we get to Samson, looks like the behemoth won’t be moving without ‘em, anyway.” 

They march out.

The behemoth, even with awkward and heavy steps, manages to keep up with Anders and the templars. Anders thinks that the templars leading them are travelling deliberately slowly for the behemoth’s benefit. But slow the pace may be, it is tiring, they do not rest at night and they have no food to spare Anders. Anders walks because they tell him to. His feet had gone soft from all those years of being kept in the keep, now they are blistered and bloodied. 

On the third day of the journey, they stop for rest. 

-

Hawke spots the red templars before they spot him.

They are rather hard to miss, glowing even in the dark of the night. He thinks he can take them until he realizes that the giant hunk of rock is actually another templar. 

Maybe he could have taken them if he wasn’t alone.

He misses his friends terribly.

-

Anders knows that they are being followed. 

He knows because Hawke is no rogue. He knows because he had been there when Isabela had fruitlessly tried to teach Hawke how to make his footsteps quieter, make himself look like a shadow. And after years of following after Hawke, Anders is intimately familiar with his footsteps.

He had laughed with Isabela when Hawke had managed to be even louder than usual. She had wiped the tears from her eyes and told him it was lucky she was willing to sneak around for him. 

Hawke had blushed and smiled and Anders remembers that he had been particularly pleased at that sight.

Anders doesn’t say anything because the templars do not ask.

-

Hawke decides to stop tracking the templars. He can’t take them alone and Varric needs him in Skyhold.

-

It’s all for the best, Anders decides. It would not be wise for Hawke to tackle this group by himself. He would be outnumbered quickly. The red templars are fierce, they do not care for their own lives, their own pain, the lyrium fuels them to new heights.

-

Hawke turns to leave, thankful that no one had caught him. 

It’s a good thing that the templars are not worried about ambush, they are sure of their own power.

-

The behemoth stills. It lifts its head, a mockery of dog sniffing the air for strangers. Anders puts his hands on its massive, deformed arm. It’s warm, like touching a feverish patient. 

“It’s okay,” Anders says, but he knows he is three years too late.

The behemoth screams, a deep, inhuman sound that pierces the air.

-

Hawke turns just in time to see the behemoth grab and fling one of the templars into a tree.

It uses its massive arm like a flail, catching another templar in the stomach and smashing him into the ground. 

It takes no time at all for the other templars to react, they draw their swords at the behemoth but steel proves to be a rather ineffective weapon against something covered in _rock._

“Make him stop!” One of the templars yell.

It’s only then Hawke notices a figure decidedly not templar. A tall man, painfully skinny in a simple, filthy, robe. The figure shakes his head.

“I can not do that.” He says and Hawke nearly drops his staff.

The templar curses and lunges to the side to narrowly avoid getting crushed under the behemoth’s assault. 

Hawke gathers his mana into his palms until it is a bright red flame. He hears his own blood rushing into his head, heart pumping faster.

He know that voice. _He knows that voice._

-

The behemoth takes out half of the templars before one of them manages to shatter its arm with a shield. Then it only takes a lucky hit to make it stagger backwards, a wound to what little flesh that had remained. 

It knew it was dying, Anders thinks. Whatever the templars had wanted the behemoth to be, it wasn’t it, not completely. It was always in pain and it was always full of regrets, it was always suffering, it was always too human. There was no comfort that Anders can give it now. 

-

Hawke makes a quick work of the templars, wounded and ambushed. 

The air smells like fire, grass and dirt charred from his spells. Hawke plunges the blade of his staff into the neck of the templar still breathing even after being hit with a lightning bolt. There is a sickening squelch, and then silence.

The behemoth doesn’t bleed, Hawke thinks it doesn’t have enough blood left in its body to do so. Anders is hunched over what remains of its body, still drawing a raspy, rattling breath.

“Anders.” Hawke calls, the name rolling off his tongue as if he hadn’t called that name out a hundred times in despair and alone. 

“Hello, Hawke.” Anders says. He turns and Hawke sees the sunburst symbol on his forehead- in the lyrium’s red light, it is all shadow and blood. 

Hawke does drop his staff then. He sinks to his knees in front of Anders and he mourns the death of his love.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mention of animal abuse.

Hawke remembers. It must’ve been years ago, that night in the Chantry, a small red sunburst brand on that man’s forehead. The strange calm in his voice despite the violent outcry from Anders, as if two men's worth of despair had been poured into him. Hawke realizes just how difficult, how impossible the thing Karl had asked of Anders was.

There are fates worse than death.

Hawke points the bladed end of his staff at Anders' throat though the end shakes so badly, Hawke might as well as be aiming for the ground. 

Hawke should end it now, the half life Anders has been sentenced to, cut the strings off a puppet that looks and talks like Anders but can never be him.

But isn’t that what Anders had wanted before too? He had asked Hawke, sitting on that crate with the sky still burning red, slumped like a man who tried carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and ended up being crushed by it. Hawke couldn’t do it then and he can’t do it now, even knowing that the Anders he once loved, still does love, is no longer there.

“Do you wish to die?” Hawke asks Anders though he already knows the answer. It is a coward’s way out.

“I do not, no.” Anders replies, voice quiet and steady despite the bloodied steel only inches away from his throat.

With a sharp intake of breath, Hawke plunges his blade, not into Anders where it should be but into the wet dirt between them. Anders gives a soft exhale that Hawke almost mistakes as a sigh of relief.

Hawke feels his knees go weak, buckling under him. He braces himself on his staff and ends up kneeling in front of Anders. The red lyrium gives off a faint, red light that illuminates the surrounding like dying embers of a campfire. Thick shadows blanket the hollows of Anders’ face, the sunken cheeks in black, the too pale skin scraped over too much surface in bone white. The bones of his wrist jut out from the ill-fitted sleeves of his filthy robes. Every dip and groove of his hand are highlighted in red and white and black like a picture painted with only three colors, glossy and runny from too much oil, too much pigment. 

Anders is more than skinny, he reminds Hawke of a dog he’s seen in Lothering once, a small mutt with ribs showing through the brown hide, tired, even of begging for scraps, lying down and waiting to die in the dirt. 

Hawke has so many questions but he swallows them all along with his doubts and fears.

“Come,” he says, extending his hand out to Anders, who blinks at the hand without taking it, “We should get out of here.”

“Of course.” Anders replies carefully, and slowly raises his arm to place his hand in Hawke’s. It seems smaller than Hawke remembers, fingers thin and long, nails jagged and broken. It is a cold, delicate thing. Still, Hawke hauls him up, reaching out to steady his shoulder when Anders can’t quite manage to find his feet.

That too, is much too fragile. Hawke fears that Anders will shatter in his hands.

-

Skyhold is a bustle of activity, a destination in the middle of nowhere caught half-way between dilapidation and restoration, new, polished wooden beams against aged, mossy stone, a cacophony of life blanketed by the silent stillness all around them. A continuous stream of refugees and pilgrims are already cutting a path through the snow, and it will take no time at all for a trail to become a road.

It is also in a good, defensible position.

Good and defensible against an army perhaps, but looking at how frightening easy it is for Hawke and Anders to slip in among the crowd, the newly titled Inquisitor has some work cut out for them. For now though, Hawke is glad a pair of simple travelling cloaks is sufficient enough to hide both Anders and himself. It hadn't exactly posed a problem when they were travelling, most of the people they had run across thought Anders was just another refugee, starving and sick. But here, in the heart of the Inquisition, with both templars and mages packed together in its walls, Hawke would rather not take any chances.

"I can help them." Anders states when they pass by the sick tents. A single surgeon attends to a man with bandages wrapped around his stomach, while another lays dying on the bed roll not two feet away. 

"No." Hawke tell him, voice harder than intended. He grabs Anders' hand and pulls him closer to himself. Anders lets himself be pulled and sticks close to Hawke for the rest of the day, not unlike a lost puppy.

Hawke sticks mostly to the battlements, at least until he has a chance to meet with Varric. With most of the capable hands occupied with renovations and organizations, the battlements are occupied by only a skeleton crew of exhausted looking scouts that leave him and Anders to themselves. Anders still has some difficulty climbing the stairs or walking too much for long and he is still much too skinny but with proper rest and food, he looks noticeably better with each passing day.

Hawke looks down the battlements, at the courtyard where the merchants have just erected tents for their wares. Anders sits behind him looking up, up at the clear blue skies.

"Anders," Hawke calls quietly, so that the scout a few paces behind them won't hear, "Don't get too close to the edge."

"Yes, Hawke" Anders answers and Hawke considers it a victory that Anders has stopped calling him "Ser."

"I should've know you would be up here," a familiar voice says and Hawke whirls around. 

"Varric." Hawke greets and for the first time since he's found Anders, he finds himself smiling.

"Seriously, you couldn't find somewhere lower to hole up in?" Varric says, huffing lightly, but his voice is warm.

"Well, you know me, I like to be where the people are." Hawke replies lightly. He reaches out to give Varric a pat, like he's always done to greet his friend but Varric pulls him into a tight hug.

"I've missed your ugly face, Hawke." Varric says. Hawke squeezes him back.

"I've missed you too, Varric." Varric lets Hawke go, giving him a watery smile that he coughs away, replacing it with his usual, roguish expression.

"And you've bought a friend?" Varric asks, raising his eyebrows at Anders who is still hooded, looking out into the mountains, only his thin, bony hands poke out from folds of his cloak.

Hawke sighs, the little warmth that had gathered in his heart has evaporated into the mountain winds. He dreads what Varric will say but knows that this conversation cannot be avoided. He needs Varric's help. _Anders_ needs Varric's help.

"Yes," Hawke replies then calls out to Anders. "Anders, come here."

Hawke hears the sharp intake of breath from Varric and he focuses his gaze on Anders. Anders stands from where he had been sitting, steadily, and walks the few steps towards Hawke.

"Hawke," Varric shakes his head, "Please tell me you didn't."

"You don't understand." Hawke tells him, pulling Anders closer.

"Hello, Varric," Anders says and pulls down his hood.

His long, blonde hair slips down from inside the hood, drifting messily in the wind.

"Don't understand?" Varric asks incredulously, but let's his eyes travel up, taking in the way Anders is standing, white hands folded in front of him, the hollowed cheeks, messy, lanky hair left growing for too long. His eyes finally land on the small red sunburst on his forehead. Varric's eye widens.

"Shit." He says.

"Yes." Hawke agrees. 

"You shouldn't have bought him here." Varric says and Hawke whips his head around to Varric.

"What?" He spits, suddenly hot with red anger. Varric holds his hands up to placate him. He steals another glance at Anders, his blank, calm face.

"Hawke, you don't understand, I can name at least five names within a half mile radius that wants him dead, right now," Varric pauses, then continues, "And that's only because I really haven't talked to a lot of people since we've come here."

"I will protect him." Hawke states harshly.

"I'm telling you, this isn't a good idea." Varric says but Hawke pulls Anders behind him, as if to protect Anders from Varric. 

"Do you know how I found him?" Hawke asks Varric, lips tight. "Surrounded by a bunch of red templars, with a behemoth on the rampage." he says when Varric shakes his head. 

"You should've seen him, Varric," Hawke says with a laugh that both know that he doesn't mean, "two more days with them and he would have been dead."

"What-"

"They were going to kill me." Varric starts but is interrupted when Anders speaks, unprompted for the first time. "The templars said." 

"Shit." Varric says again. He looks down at his feet, hand on the back of his neck. 

"But if they were going to kill you, why did they bother turning you Tranquil?" Varric asks, waving his head at his own forehead to indicate Anders' brand.

"They were different templars, I think." Anders answers. "They turned me Tranquil because I needed to be punished."

Hawke's grip on Anders' arm tightens. It hurts but Anders says nothing. 

"Different templars?" Varric asks again and Anders nods.

"The templars that turned me Tranquil, they were from Kirkwall," Anders begins, "They caught up with me three nights after the battle with Meredith."

Varric's eyebrows shoots up, alarmed. "And you've been with them this whole time?"

"Yes," Anders confirms. "The other templars were the one that bought red lyrium to them."

"He's staying with me." Hawke tells Varric with finality. 

Varric sighs, a heavy thing that weighs more than the stones holding them up. "I suppose there is no convincing you otherwise." 

Varric sets them up to stay in the room that he's claimed for himself, saying that he barely uses the room anyway, he already has a desk set up in front of the fireplace in the hall.

"Trust me, it'll be way better than staying out in the tents with the other pilgrims," he says, opening the door to his room. It's small but clean, and more importantly, private, tucked away above the courtyard.

"I really appreciate this, Varric," Hawke tells him but Varric waves him off.

"Just...," he scratches the back of his head, "take care of him, Hawke."

"I will."

Varric assures him that he will do his best to keep Anders a secret, but he also doesn't make any promises. It's still more than Hawke could hope for. He's read enough of Varric's letters to know that the Inquisition's spymaster is a woman to fear, a former companion of the Hero of Ferelden and the Left Hand of the Divine. Hawke being a Champion of Kirkwall doesn't help either, and his role in slaying Knight Commander Meredith, somewhat dramatized in Varric's book. 

Night comes quickly to Skyhold, the bustle of the day dying as the sun sets blood red over the white snow capped mountains. Varric sets him up to meet the Inquisitor on the battlements tomorrow, an elf that he's only caught a glimpse of during the day, busily running around Skyhold to talk to his companions. He reminds Hawke of himself in Kirkwall, and Hawke briefly wonders if it makes him prideful to compare himself to the so-called Herald of Andraste. 

Anders, for the most part, sits in silence, next to the window over looking the courtyard. He gazes down at the sisters singing the Chant, the men and women arranging pots and tilling soil to plant herbs there. What he thinks about all this, Hawke doesn't know, doesn't want to ask. He eats when Hawke pushes food at him, though still very little, and washes in the small basin in the corner of the room. He is sitting still, by the window when Hawke climbs into the bed. It's there Hawke realizes that there is only one bed.

On the road, sleeping arrangements hadn't been a problem. Everyone slept next to each other, in the tents or crowded inns, people crowded together on the beds and floors. Hawke had kept Anders close by his side even in slumber, gripped by some fear that Anders was going to run away or taken from him. But here, in the safety of Skyhold, in Varric's room, with his desk piled with letters willingly ignored, quills and ink stains, Hawke finds himself at a loss.

Of course, Hawke can tell Anders to sleep by his side, he has no doubt that Anders will listen, but somehow it feels wrong. It feels like taking advantage.

"Anders," Hawke calls quietly, cautiously.

"Yes?" Anders turns away from the window, looking at Hawke with those empty eyes.

"Where will you sleep?" Hawke asks.

"Do you not wish for me to sleep next to you?" Anders asks.

Hawke doesn't know how to answer that. Of course he does, he wants Anders like he's had Anders before, in his Hightown estate. He wants Anders like he was before, complaining about Dog getting in the bed again, hair golden and soft in the firelight, feather light touches that spoke far better than words could ever have. He wants _his_ Anders by his side, he wants to fall asleep with Anders' arms wrapped around him, and he wants to wake Anders up with kisses in the morning.

"I could sleep in the corner," Anders says, his voice far too sensible, "I've done so plenty times, it would not bother me."

"No," Hawke says quickly. 

"You're angry."

Hawke sighs, willing himself to calm down. "Yes, but not at you."

"Why?" Anders asks.

Hawke gestures for Anders to come and Anders does without protest. He climbs in next to Hawke. The bed is large enough but Hawke still presses Anders close.

"They shouldn't have treated you like that."

"Even though I deserve it?"

Hawke presses a small kiss to Anders' forehead. "No, never."

"Will you sleep here, in the bed?" Hawke asks, "with me, I mean?"

"Yes," Anders replies, "If you want me to."

Sleep does not come easily to Hawke that night. Warmth blossoming from Anders, sleeping next to him feels like a lie that Hawke cannot believe in. It feels like a cheap imitation of his memories. Hawke wonders what he will do with Anders now. Will it go on like this with Anders following him like a shadow of his guilt? Would Hawke get tired of looking after Anders and leave him somewhere? 

There, in the dark of night, Hawke watches Anders sleep. Pale moonlight illuminating and erasing away the new scars and lines on his face. In sleep, Anders looks at peace, rather than simply just empty. Hawke allows himself to imagine, just for a moment, the brand on Anders' forehead gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke feels uneasy leaving Anders alone in the room for the while he’s gone but Varric assures him that no one will be bothering Anders while he’s in his room. It’s only after making Anders repeat his request (Hawke refuses to think of it as an _order_ ) to stay in the room that he manages to peel himself away and to the battlements. 

Meeting with the Inquisitor is… tiring to say the least. The Inquisitor is not what Hawke has expected, as descriptive Varric is with his words in his letters. A rather fragile looking elf, shorter than Hawke himself, the Inquisitor briefly reminds him of Merrill with thin tendrils of her vallaslin emblazoned on her face. It is difficult to imagine him facing down Corypheus and his pet dragon, alone. Yet when the Inquisitor speaks, he speaks with a calm, gentle tone, with grave seriousness that matches the topic of their discussion. 

The Inquisitor asks _many_ questions.

By the end of it all, though it couldn’t have been more than maybe half an hour, Hawke feels more exhausted than he’s ever been, weariness creeping into this skin from all directions, anxiousness compounding every moment he’s away from Anders. What if something has happened while he had been away? If Anders had run away?

Hawke jumps when Varric touches him on the elbow.

“Woah, easy there,” Varric says.

Hawke runs his hands down his face, taking a deep breath. “Sorry,” He tells Varric, “I think I should be getting back to the room.”

“No, Hawke.” Hawke looks down at Varric at that, raising his eyebrows. Varric crosses his arms. “In my humble opinion-.”

“That I haven’t asked for-.” Varric pointedly ignores him.

“What you need is time away from,” Varric pauses, “...that room.”

Hawke sighs. He knows that Varric is right- ever since he’s found Anders, his entire life had been reduced to just that- taking care of Anders, or at least what used to be Anders, because he’s not strong enough or brave enough to let go. For them both. Hawke’s shoulder falls. But still…

“I don’t know, Varric.” He tells Varric truthfully.

“Listen, Blondie will be fine.” Varric says, grabbing Hawke’s elbow and steering him down the stairs.   
“If anything comes up, we’ll definitely know, okay? If someone finds out about him, there definitely will be lots of screaming and possibly something on fire.” 

“That doesn’t really reassure me.” Hawke says but let’s Varric take him to wherever.

-

The beer is definitely better than whatever had been passed off as a drink in the Hanged Man. It penetrates him, leaving pleasant warmth in its wake. His spine no longer feels like it’s splintered to a board and the corners of his mouth freed from whatever had been nailing them into a semi-permanent frown. The air in the tavern is light, lighter than what Hawke has expected of the Inquisition. Laughter and camaraderie flow easily between even the strangest collection of people- a Dalish in shining armor sharing a plate with a dwarf, a large drunken qunari singing scandalous songs with even drunker compatriots. He actually manages to laugh a bit when Varric tells his fourth terrible joke.

“And there it is.” Varric says over his cup of ale, looking smug.

“Ah,” Hawke replies, slight smile still tugging at his mouth, “I’ve been a terrible friend, haven’t I?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _terrible_ , maybe just awful?” Though Varric’s tone is joking, Hawke still winces.

“I am sorry,” Hawke tells him, “for what it’s worth.”

“For what it’s worth.” Varric agrees, then takes another sip of his ale. They fall into a companionable silence, the same kind that they used to have back in Kirkwall, those rare days when bandits and slavers and even drunkards were taking a break, even Anders and Fenris putting a pause in their usual bickering. Hawke hadn’t realized how much he’s missed peace until he sits in on one of its rare appearance.

They both turn around when the qunari on the other side of the tavern calls out Varric’s name. Varric waves back but with a slight shake of his head. The qunari nods once and leaves them both be, turning back to his mismatched crowd of dwarf, elves, and humans. 

“Bull’s a nice guy,” Varric says, prompted by Hawke’s inquisitive stare. “But he can be a little bit much to take in. Maybe some other time.”

“Of course,” Hawke says, wondering if there will be another time indeed, if ever. 

They chat, with Varric spinning tales in his usual fashion while Hawke gives his input where necessary. It’s an easy, familiar rhythm, cushioned by the familiar smell of beer and ale and other stronger drinks, the drumming sound of jovial drunks hitting the wooden countertop with half-empty tankards, laughter and murmur of conversations and arguments. Hawke can almost hear Isabela’s raunchy jokes and Fenris’ badly disguised laughs, Merrill asking Varric to explain the dirty thing, Aveline’s amused disapproval and Anders’ exasperation at them all. 

It startles Hawke how much he misses all of that. Kirkwall had been anything but easy, his time there marked, not by the years that passed by, but by the trouble that followed him, one after another. First had been his time with Meeran, then the Deep Roads, the Arishok, Orsino and Meredith. He had lost so much.

But he had also gained so much as well, hadn’t he? 

Somewhere, as he lost Bethany to the Blight, Carver to the Wardens, and Mother to blood magic, he had found himself a whole new set of friends and family. Hawke’s life marked by before and after Anders.

So where exactly is Hawke’s life now, after Anders?

“Hey,” Varric’s touch is gentle but firm, breaking Hawke out of his thoughts. “You’re looking morose again.”

“Morose?” Hawke chuckles, though he doesn’t mean it.

“If the word fits.”

Hawke doesn’t answer, instead he lifts his cup to his lips, dismayed when he realizes that he had finished his drink a while ago.

Varric sighs dramatically. “And here I was telling a phenomenal story about the Inquisitor’s first encounter with a Fereldan Frostback.”

“Sorry,” Hawke says again.

“Don’t be.” Varric tells him because that’s the kind of good friend he is. “I just wish there is something I can do to help, I really do.”

Hawke thinks about the Coterie hired to watch Anders clinic, greedy purses filled to keep Merrill safe, the little gifts and suggestions greasing various palms of Kirkwall, the room above the garden with cluttered desk and guaranteed privacy. 

“No, Varric.” Hawke says voice steady and firm. “You’ve already done so much.”

Varric grins at him. “Of course, you would say that, Waffles.”

Hawke snorts at the old nickname. “I thought we’ve moved past that name.”

“Me, move on from nicknaming my closest friends?” Varric puts a hand over his heart, voice scandalized, “Well, I never.”

The smile that graces Hawke’s face this time is a genuine one, the kind of smile that takes up his entire face, eyes crinkling at the corner.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Hawke says, then drops his voice lower, “and for _him_ , I know it can’t be easy, after what happened…”

It’s a testament to their friendship how Hawke doesn’t miss the brief shadow flickering across Varric’s face, his usually soft and smiling eyes hardening for just a moment.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly something I can forgive and forget,” Varric says, “And believe me, I wish I could forget.”

“And he’s not off the hook,” Varric continues. He looks down at the bottom of his empty tankard. “But I can’t get angry at him now, either, now, can I?”

“It’ll be like kicking sad puppy.”

“The puppy might actually bite back.” Hawke adds darkly. 

“Shit.” 

Hawk runs his hands over his face. It can’t be no more than an hour after sundown and yet his arms are drained of energy, the warmth of pleasant company and good drinks leaving as quickly as it came. It’s probably a bad idea, he thinks, but he signals the dwarf behind the bar for another, something stronger than ale. 

“You know,” Varric begins, watching Hawke knock back his glass, “I used to tell myself that if I ever saw him again, I’d give him a good kick in the shin.”

“Is that so.” Hawke says. The drink burns his throat like fire.

“It’s the highest part of him that I can reach.” 

Hawke snorts though it is a mirthless one.   
“No box of flaming nug shit on his doorsteps?” He asks and Varric shakes his head.

“If his doorsteps are anything like what he had in Darktown, a box of flaming nug shit might actually be an improvement.” 

Hawke sighs and signals for another glass. 

“I won’t lie to you, Hawke.” Varric says, “the only other person I’ve been more angry at is Bartrand and that’s saying something.”

“But he’s important to you.”

The strength of the drink makes Hawke’s eyes water. He coughs as he downs his second glass.

“Hell, I’ve written a page long prose about how important to you he is and… that means he’s important to me too.”

“I’m here for you, just as always.”

“Varric…”

“No need to get teary eyed, you know that’s not my style.” Hawke nods at that, grateful for the excuse of another drink, the dark flickering lights that make for darker shadows in the tavern. 

“But it is a bit of a shit show.” Varric says, with a feeble attempt at making his voice lighter.

“It really is.”

-

Hawke ends up drinking enough to stumble to get himself to their room that night. The moon hanging bright and white in the night sky above, the room is washed in darkness. The candles are cold, unlit and for a briefest moment, panic threatens to take hold of Hawke’s throat when he can’t see Anders on the bed.

“You’ve been drinking.” Anders says from the chair he’s been sitting motionlessly on and Hawke lets go of the breath he’s been holding. It’s a statement of fact, void of judgement or accusation.

“Yes,” Hawke chokes out as Anders drifts quietly towards him. 

“Do you wish to have the bed for yourself tonight?” Anders asks.

“No,” Hawke says, shaking his head. “Have you been waiting up for me so that you can ask that?”

“Yes.” Anders replies. “I did not wish to presume.”

“Of course.” Hawke can’t help the bitterness tinting his words, more vicious words bitten back behind his lips.

“Did anything happen while I was gone?” Hawke asks with forced lightness.

“No,” Anders replies and steps forward, reaching out to Hawke. It’s a gesture that Hawke’s seen so many times before, back in Kirkwall. Hawke can still feel the ghost of light kisses that followed it. But Anders fingers ends up on his armor.

“No, that’s fine, I can do it myself,” Hawke says, batting Anders’ hands away from his collar when he struggles to undo the laces with his shaking, drunken fingers.

Anders withdraws his hands, quickly, as if burned. He grasps it tight, to his own chest.

“I apologize.” Anders says and takes a single, measure step away from Hawke.

Hawke wants to scream out in frustration, the emotions he’s tried washing away with Varric’s words and pungent drinks coming back like a flood, slamming into his chest. He lets out a ragged breath.

“I did not mean to make you upset.” Anders says and if Hawke didn’t know any better, he would say that Anders is afraid of him. But Tranquils have no fear, did they?

Hawke gives up on trying to unlace his armor, why he put on the blasted thing this morning in the first place is beyond him. Instead his sits heavily on the bed, letting the squeaking posts under the mattress take his weight.

“You didn’t, Anders.” Hawke says and is only marginally successful at keeping his voice level. “Please, come here.”

And Anders does, there is no hesitation in his movements, no fear, no anger.

Hawke takes Anders’ wrist, gentle, his fingers steady despite being so uncontrollable only a moment ago. He slowly pulls Anders flush against his chest, into his arms. Hawke drops his face into Anders’ shoulder, so much thinner than he remembers. It’s still so familiar, the warmth leeching onto his face chilled by the mountain wind, Anders’ smell penetrating his senses when he takes a deep breath. 

“Let’s go to bed.” Hawke says, pulling them both fully on top of the covers. Anders comes, quietly, as expected. Despite the drinks and the draining day Hawke’s had, sleep does not come easy to him. 

He looks out the window from the bed, Anders tucked against his chest, breathing too quietly. 

There is a bowl of plums on the windowsill there, lit white by the moonlight. Strange, he does not remember bringing plums up. It should alarm him, he should ask Anders where the bowl had come from. But instead the whole image slips from his mind like some forgotten dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler chapter but I wanted to give Varric a moment to voice himself.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke straddles the halfway point between sleep and the waking world- he is, perhaps, only just awake enough to know that he is dreaming. It is a pleasant dream, something that has become something of a rarity these days. He is back the Amell estate in Kirkwall, there is warm, bright sunlight shining down on his face, urging him to wake up and face the day. Yet, Hawke knows that he still has time to enjoy the comfort and warmth of his own bed. 

Hawke flings his arm to sidle up to the man he knows is there. 

Anders.

But he is not. But here, inside the safety of his dreams, Hawke does not worry. Hawke feels the bed dip where the blankets have tangled under his knees in the night, and he feels the reassuring presence of Anders there. Hawke doesn’t open his eyes because this is a familiar routine.

Long, gentle fingers find themselves on Hawke’s knees, ghosting up maddeningly slow, inches by inches. The touches are soft as always, impossibly hot against the skin of his legs, his thighs. They caress his skin before languidly stretching so that the entire length of them lay flat against his upper thighs. Hawke feels them slip down so that they are on the either side of his legs, the tips of the fingers ghosting the bottom of his ass. The delicate touches tickle but Hawke has never felt the impulse the laugh, his tongue stuck in the back of his throat, unable to form anything that are not throaty grunts and gasps, and _please_ , and _Anders._

Hawke feels the warm ghost of breath on his cock at the same time the fingers slip further up his ass, fully grabbing the flesh there. With his eyes still closed, Hawke spreads his thighs and throws an arm over his face.

He gasps when a wet tongue licks a wide stripe up his hard cock, sweet cool morning air filling his lungs, making his head spin. There is a barely there kiss on the tip, so gentle that Hawke almost thinks that he’s imagined it, before Hawke feels a mouth engulf his cock. 

Hawke can’t help the stuttering of his hips, thrusting up to the warm suction. The hands on his ass are kneading the flesh there, fingers teasingly dipping into the crevice between his cheeks, still maddeningly gentle. Heated pleasure shoots up Hawke’s spine as Anders’ mouth works his cock, and though Hawke has yet to open his eyes, he can still Anders’ head, bobbing up and down, lips a provocative shade of red from the friction.

Anders gives a particularly hard suck on the top of his cock and Hawke cries out, “Anders!”

Then Hawke wakes up.

With the dream still clinging to the inside of his eyelids, it takes a moment to orient himself inside Varric’s room, the ceiling made of cut stones fitted together, rather than the draped ceiling that graced his room at the Amell estate. Hawke’s head is throbbing and he desperately wishes to fall back into the dream again, he groans and tries to get up-

He realizes that there is a person between his legs. 

Anders’ blonde head bobs up and down, his mouth around his cock, just like in Hawke’s dream. From this angle, he can’t see Anders’ face, the red sun burned into his forehead is the only thing that Hawke can see.

Shit.

With some difficulty, not only because his arms are stiff from sleeping in his armor but also because there is a small, treacherous part of him that doesn’t want to, Hawke reaches out and gently pushes Anders away.

There is a filthy, wet plop and the sensation of Anders’ tongue chasing his cock.

_Dear Maker._

Anders peers up at him, still between his thighs, his cold, thin hands on Hawke’s thighs. His eyes are clear as amber marbles, blank as the rocks that Hawke used to pawn off to shady Lowtown market stalls. His lips are a striking shade of red, glistening with spit, Hawke can see a glimpse of wet tongue between his parted lips.

“Ah,” Hawke manages to croak out, his voice rough like sandpaper. “What are you doing?”

Anders furrows his eyebrows, like he’s trying to find a way to say _isn’t it obvious?_ , without sounding offensive. He licks his lips, a jolt of arousal races down Hawke’s spine at the sight of it, immediately followed by shame and guilt.

“Would you like to fuck me instead?” Anders asks, his voice unwavering, _so sensible_ like he’s suggesting going for a walk or perhaps having stew for dinner. 

“What?” Hawke sits up, the last remaining vestiges of sleep quickly draining away. He swings his naked legs over the side of the bed so that Anders wouldn’t be between them anymore, Maker, and pulls up his pants where Anders had slipped them off his thighs. “Why would you think that I…”

Hawke pauses. Was this some sort of misguided attempt at reenacting their old memories? But in the weeks they’ve been together, Anders had not tried anything like it. In fact, he seemed to skitter away from all sorts of contacts. All the touches and tugs that Hawke could not help himself from, Anders tolerated them with grim powerlessness that neither encouraged or discouraged further touches. Hawke had initially thought it had something to do with being stripped of all his dreams and desires.

But this-

“I apologize,” Anders says simply, crawling off the bed. 

“No, wait,” Hawke lunges, scrabbling to grab Anders’ wrists. He jumps back from Hawke’s grasp as if he’s been burned. 

“Anders, what-”

“I must have misunderstood, I’m sorry,” Anders says breathlessly, this is the most uncomposed Hawke has seen Anders since he’s found him. He can see Anders’ chest rise and fall in short rapid bursts, the hand that he’s snatched away from Hawke shaking like the wings of an injured bird. Hawke reaches out again, slowly, but still without a thought. He wants to gather Anders into his arms and comfort him like he’s always done, sooth his hands down Anders’ hair and down his back, let them soak in each others’ warmth. 

But Anders flinches, taking a hurried step back into the opposite wall.

“I’m sorry,” Anders says again with something like panic in his voice, “I’ll do better next time.”

“Next time?” Hawke asks and a horrible feeling slides into place like a missing piece of a puzzle, a piece that had not been lost as so much as _adamantly ignored_. But Hawke had known, he had seen the scars, the marks on Anders’ body when he took off that filthy robe for the first time to bathe, the ring of red around his neck like a noose.

But Hawke could not bare thinking about it, because it couldn’t have, it wouldn’t have, no matter what rotten things Hawke had seen in Kirkwall and in the rogue templars razing through refugees and camps. 

It had been so easy to ignore it all. Focus on getting Anders back to his health. Put salve on his bloody feet. Get him some clean clothes. Make sure he eats. Keep him hidden. Protect him. Keep him moving to Skyhold, everything else can come later.

Well, it’s later now.

Anders presses himself harder into the wall against his back. Hawke takes a slow, deliberate step towards him, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. 

“Easy,” Hawke says, “I won’t hurt you.”

It pains him that Anders thinks Hawke is capable of hurting him.

“I-,” Anders tries and is caught off by a violent exhale from his own lungs. He breathes harshly, nostrils flaring. His eyes dart to Hawke’s chest to his forehead, then to over his shoulder. Looking at anywhere but his eyes, Hawke realizes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Anders,” Hawke uses the gentlest voice he can manage.

“No, I made a mistake, and-” Anders says but Hawke crushes him into a hug before he can continue. Anders stiffens in his arms and Hawke realizes that this might have not been the best course of action. For a moment, Hawke thinks that Anders will burst into tears.

Of course, he does not.

Instead, Anders tentatively puts his own arms around Hawke like he’s just remembered how to move his arms. It’s a poor imitation of the kind of embraces that Hawke used to share with Anders but at least he’s not trying to push himself into a wall. Hawke will take victories wherever he can get them.

“Come,” Hawke says, taking Anders’ pliant wrist and leading him to the chair by the window overlooking the grounds. “I think it’s time for me to hear what you went through in the last three years.”

“If that is what you want,” Anders answers.

But before Hawke can manage to steel himself for the things that he is about to hear, a knock on their door interrupts them both. Ringing in the quiet air series of small, unsure little questions, not loud, angry demands of templars looking for Anders. Still, Hawke motions for Anders to be quiet before opening the door a crack. He makes sure he stands between Anders and the doors, blocking the room from view.

Hawke doesn’t know what to make of the young elf standing outside the door, dressed in brown robes that would have been rather fashionable ten years ago with familiar feather caplet covering his shoulder and golden buckles shining in the morning sun though the scandalously exposed chest has been covered up by a wide scarf around his neck. 

“What is it?” Hawke asks impatiently. 

“Oh, oh!” The elf looks up, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Hawke to actually answer the door. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, Hawke raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I meant the Champion of Kirkwall, of course.” The elf scrambles to compose himself. “I didn’t think you’d actually answer the door!”

The elf looks up at Hawke’s face and then turns away blushing.

“What do you want?” Hawke asks again, not being able to find it in himself to be nice to an obviously star struck apprentice.

“Oh Maker, so sorry,” the elf says and then pulls something out of his pouch, “I’ve been asked to deliver this to you.”

It’s a small scroll tied with a piece of twine. Hawke takes it with some reluctance.

“It’s from former Grand Enchanter Fiona,” the elf explains, “I didn’t read it I promise, the Grand Enchanter made me swear.”

“I see.”

“Yes, well,” the elf shifts his feet, “and that’s it, I suppose.”

“Thank you then,” Hawke says, and without waiting for an answer, he shuts the door. He listens carefully for the footsteps of the elf walking away and only when Hawke is sure that he has gone away, Hawke lets out a breath he’s been holding. 

He unwraps the twine holding the note closed and unfurls it. There is only two lines written there in a simple, neat handwriting.

[Come meet me at the library when you can. It’s about your tranquil friend. -F.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight deviance from the prompt.  
> Also, thank you for all the comments! I can't answer them without deanoning but they are all appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

The Inquisition library is rather underwhelming, shelves still empty and stacks of ancient looking tomes waiting to be shelved scattered beside them. The few titles that have been placed neatly are, as far as Hawke can tell, Chantry propaganda. The whole place smells like dust and the ravens making some unholy cacophony just upstairs, swooping in and out the windows- but mixed with scents of old parchment and mountain wind, it almost feels pleasant. 

Hawke isn’t sure exact who it is he is looking for, but he’s almost sure that it isn’t the man cushioned in the largest armchair Hawke has ever seen, twirling a mustache in his fingers. There are a few other people between the shadows as well, shelved away like the books themselves. Hawke walks between them, coming to a stop in a secluded corner, _conveniently_ away from the Tranquil pouring intently into the tower of research in front of her. 

F comes to find him in the form of a small elven woman, almost fragile looking with crow’s feet crowning her face and gray streaked black hair cut short and neat. And though she is a head shorter than Hawke,she has the sort of piercing look that makes him feel like a child all over again, though it is softened by the smile she wears. 

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Hawke says, a greeting and realization in one.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” Fiona returns, dipping her head briefly. Her voice is strong and her accent foreign but unrecognizable. “I have heard much about you.”

“You haven’t been talking to a beardless dwarf recently, have you?” Hawke jokes and Fiona smiles.

“Unfortunately, his tales are as illuminating as they are enchanting,” she says and puts a hand on his arm carefully, “but I’m afraid we will be disturbing more than birds if we talk here. Come, there are better places suited for conversations.”

She leads Hawke out of the library and out of the castle. It’s a chilly day outside, though Hawke doubts that they will ever be any warm days in this part of the world. The rest of Skyhold is in constant states of reconstruction, refugees trickling in by haggard groups. But Hawke has no time or mind to admire the view around him, impatience eating away at his nerves as Fiona walks in and around the courtyards and the towers without saying anything deeper than passing comments about the weather and current events.

“Your note.” Hawke says finally, somewhere between the many staircases of Skyhold.

“Of course.” Fiona answers but does not elaborate.

Instead Hawke clears his throat, then asks, “How did you know?”

Fiona looks like she wants to smile, but doesn’t quite trust herself to do it. The corners of her eyes crinkle. “Let’s just say that a helpful little spirit whispered it to me.”

“Do not worry, Champion, your secret is being kept so by the best.” Hawke does not know how to answer to that so he keeps his silence.

“It is not a widely known truth, but not a close kept secret.” she says casually after a moment of silence, still sounding as though she is commenting on the number of elven recruits that have come from Dalish clans all over Thedas. “That the Rite of Tranquility has played a large part in the mage rebellion.”

Hawke whips around to stare at her placid face, legs frozen in midstep. She does not stop but continues for a few more steps until she reaches the landing between the two flights of stairs, the furs attached to her robes fluttering in the wind. Hawke mutely follows her.

“The Circle is no more and it only follows that its secrets long kept behind closed doors be freely shared as well,” she says in the same manner of speech that Malcolm used to employ during Hawke’s and his sister’s lessons. It makes him feel like a child all over again. 

“Tell me Champion, is it true that you have always been an apostate all your life?” Fiona asks. Hawke nods, not trusting in himself to speak words. “Then perhaps I am safe in assuming that you do not understand the kind of fear that Circle mages constantly live under.”

“The Chantry had always claimed that Tranquility was never about punishment, and that it was an act of mercy to those who were too weak to resist demons by themselves.” Fiona’s expression changes, though her expression is still calm, her eyes are hard, words becoming more measured. 

“And maybe some believed those words, maybe some still do, but the power often fell into the hands of men who thought they could use it for more than mercy.”

Hawke distantly remembers a conversation that he had with Anders, years ago, when his voice had been filled with rage and passion in equal amounts.

“-And that’s the problem!” he had exclaimed, raising both his hands in frustration, “we cannot reason with them because they take our ability to reason. Without the Rite hanging over our heads, mages would have so many more options.” Hawke had nodded his head, agreed because how could he not? He had seen the Tranquils in the Gallows, had his heart besieged by fear of such fates falling to him, heard the empty voice that had called out Anders’ name.

“And even the words of those who have claimed to have volunteered for the brand,” Fiona continues, “how could we believe them to be truthful?” She pauses, looking out over the busy courtyard. An elven woman is busy looking after a garden of herbs and Hawke thinks absently that Anders would have enjoyed Skyhold if he could.

“Did you know that I have once before tried to separate the Circle from the Chantry?” She asks Hawke who shakes his head. She smiles tightly. “It did not go well, as you might imagine, and had cost us the College of Enchanters. But perhaps too many of us lived in fear to speak out against the Chantry and I do not find fault in them for it.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Champion,” Fiona says gravely, “circumstances under which we had voted for independence had been a dire one, and certainly complex.”

“But I cannot help but think that perhaps it has assuaged our fear of Tranquility, but made bolder our anger.”

Hawke’s heart beats in his chest, deafeningly loud in his own ears. He’s no longer breathing. It feels as if something invisible has taken a hold of his lungs, squeezing them inside his ribcage.

“What assuaged your fears?” He asks breathlessly, “what are you talking about?”

“A cure, Champion,” Fiona says, her eyes pouring into his own, “for the Rite of Tranquility.”

-

“You can’t be serious,” Varric shakes his head, “I’d say that you’re trying to pull my legs if I hadn’t just survived an encounter with an Archdemon.”

“I thought it wasn’t an actual archdemon?” Hawke comments mildly, a deceptive front to hide the feverish thoughts swirling inside his dead.

“That’s not the point!” Varric throws up his hands into the air, looking wild. “Remember what Blondie said all those years ago? You can’t cure a beheading!”

“Anders was wrong about a lot of things,” Hawke replies quietly.

“You can say that again,” Varric says and heaves a heavy sigh. “So what are you thinking, Hawke?”

Hawke drums his fingers on the tabletop, polished smooth from years of use, turning over Fiona’s words in his mind. A touch of a spirit, she had said, or demonic possession. It’s so simple that Hawke can’t suspect that there must be something more to it, nothing in his life had ever been that easy.

“If there is even a chance that she is right,” Hawke says heavily, the weight of a man’s life behind his words, “I have to try.”

“I figured you might say that.” Varric falls silent. The sound of blacksmith’s hammer and the heat of the forge wafts up to them from downstairs, incomprehensible murmur of life rising up all around them. In that uneasy quiet, Hawke feels doubt creeping into his thoughts- what if it isn’t so easy? what if Fiona has her own reasons to lying to him?

Fiona’s words shake inside Hawke’s head like glass marbles jingling in a bag of velvet. He considers them carefully, not wanting to break off the fragile emotions intertwined between them. This isn’t his decision to make, Hawke knows, and yet it is his hands that holds it. He thinks of the empty shell left of Anders now, breathing and talking, but doing little else other than exist. He thinks of the consequences of failure and the consequences of success. He thinks of what-ifs and how-tos and everything else in between- worries and thoughts becoming too much, too loud.

But in the end, Hawke knows what he must do. It occurs to him that perhaps it does not matter if they succeed in restoring Anders. Perhaps that failure will do for Anders what Hawke was not brave enough to do.

“I need to talk to the Inquisitor,” Hawke says, his voice heavy with finality.

“I figured you might say that too.” Varric sounds impossibly tired. Hawke understands only too well.

“Are you sure about this? They might just decide to execute him. I told you, he’s not really everyone’s favorite apostate around here.”

“I have to try.” The words somehow feel like they would be his last.

Varric nods, for once offering none of his usual jokes or advices. Hawke is thankful.

“I’m with you Hawke.”

Hawke gives himself no time to doubt. With Varric’s confirmation that the Inquisitor would be heading out to the Hinterlands in a few days time, he heads to the main hall of Skyhold, old stones supported by new furnishing and wooden beams. With each step Hawke takes up, closer to the hall, his heart beats louder, until it threatens to overtake all his senses. _Anders,_ he calls out in his head, Anders, Anders, Anders. The chant is more tantalizing than any wishes demons had ever dangled in front of him. Anders can come back to him. The thought strikes Hawke like a lightning bolt.

They catch the Inquisitor just outside the war room, conversing lightly with his advisors. Hawke spares surprised Cullen a cursory glance before fixing his eyes on the Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke calls out, his voice bouncing in the broken walls of the hallway before escaping between the howling winds.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” Inquisitor replies, the slight tilt of his brows betraying surprise.

Hawke briefly bows his head in greeting before continuing. “There is a matter that I must discuss with you.”

The Inquisitor’s brows climb higher on his pale forehead.

“And what matter would that be, Champion?”

Hawke glaces between Cullen and Leliana, and a third woman whom he does not know personally, save from the brief mentions in Varric’s letters. 

“I’m afraid it is a rather sensitive subject,” Hawke says, desperately trying to keep his voice level. He can feel Leliana’s shrewd gaze on him, like daggers. “If we could find a more private place to talk.”

The Inquisitor starts to nod, but Leliana interrupts them, stepping a small step from where she had been hanging behind. “If this is the matter of the tranquil in your room…”

Hawke’s heart plummets, and he opens his mouth to say something- denial, or a lie, or perhaps admission of truth- when a great bang coming from the main hall renders him silent. Murmurs of concern quickly rise to a great racket beyond the doors and the Inquisitor and Hawke exchange a single look before dashing out into the main hall.

There is already a great number of people gathered at the main hall, soldiers and workers, looking on curiously at what is happening. Hawke catches a few more people trying to force their way into the front of the crowd, some choosing to watch from the balcony overlooking the main hall. The crowd leaves a small circle open at the center of it all, facing the Inquisitor’s severe looking chair. At a first glance, Hawke cannot see beyond the crowd but as the Inquisitor makes his way, the people part to give him way, pointing to the center and whispering, and soon falling silent.

In the center, there are a pair of armored figures. Hawke can see the Sword Mercy emblazoned on their chest, though they lack the characteristic red drapings of typical templar armor. Between them is a man, held up by the gauntleted hands on each of his arm, limp, with a shock of familiar blonde hair falling around his face like a veil.

“Anders,” Hawke calls out, pained. The name ripples through the crowd.

Anders looks up with vacant eyes to Hawke’s direction, his face empty as ever. The sunburst on his forehead looks livid in the glaring sun streaming in from the tall windows.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Anders says, “they found me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this hasn't been abandoned


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some canon laws and such has been butchered and slow-roasted for the sake of the plot.

“I assume this is what you’ve wanted to speak to me about, Champion?” The Inquisitor says as he sits heavily onto his seat at the front of the main hall. 

“That’s right,” Hawke says, swallowing. His throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.

“We found him hiding in one of the rooms,” one of the templars holding Anders speaks up, “and thought you should be informed, Inquisitor.”

“He wasn’t hiding!” Hawke tells them, fists clenched. Every bone in his body is telling him to go to Anders’ defense, rip the templars’ hands from Anders’ arms and run, run where he will be safe. It takes great effort to remain where he is, telling himself to not make things worse. “He’s been travelling with me since Orlais and was staying put in my room.”

The templar looks at Hawke, frowning. “We are very well aware of your association with the apostate...”

“Aren’t we all apostates?” Someone from the crowd murmurs. 

The templar clears his throat. “Regardless, this is the man who has destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry and it is only right that the Inquisitor be informed of such dangerous individual coming into Skyhold.”

“He is harmless,” Hawke grits out from between his teeth, “look at him and tell me what danger he poses.”

The templar looks from Hawke to Anders, his eyes flicking from Hawke’s face to Anders’ forehead, the mark there that he must be intimately familiar with. 

“I…” the templar falls silent.

“He’s is the one who blew up the Kirkwall’s Chantry. He is a murderer and a criminal that goes beyond apostasy!” The templar on the other side of Anders retorts instead.

“Let go of him.” Hawke punctuates each syllable viciously. His fingers are itching for his staff, currently slung casually behind his back. There are a lot of people in the main hall, armed and unarmed alike but Hawke has fought more people than this. They will not take Anders from him, not again. 

The Inquisitor gives Hawke a weary side glance, then gestures to the pair of templars.

“If you could be so kind and release him.” 

The templars look at each other dubiously, shifting their feet with their hands still on Anders. “But Inquisitor…”

“Please,” the Inquisitor sighs, “I don’t think he will be running anywhere.”

The templars simultaneously let go and Anders slumps between two of them, on his hands and knees in front of the Inquisitor. 

“Josephine, do we even have the authority to judge him?” The Inquisitor asks his ambassador who had been watching the scene play out with a tight grip on her quill.

“I…” The ambassador looks to Anders and then to the Inquisitor, giving him a tight nod, “I do believe that we have the authority, given that the Chantry has given us the authority to act on their behalf on such matter... albeit on a temporary basis.” 

The ambassador swallows and straightens her back. “There is, however, the matter of charges against the apostate.”

“His name is Anders,” Hawke nearly growls. 

“Yes, of course Champion,” She concedes, ignoring the rough tone, “The matter of charges against the apostate, known as Anders.”

“What of the charges?” Hawke asks.

“The matter of the charges is that… well, there isn’t one.”

When both Hawke and the Inquisitor looks at her, she clears her throat and continues. “Normally, such charges against the Chantry such as apostasy and destruction of Chantry property would be made by the behalf of the presiding Divine. While I’m sure that criminal charges would have been filed against the apostate known as Anders under Divine Justinia name…”

“She is dead.” Hawke comments flatly.

“Quite right,” The ambassador agrees with a nod of her head, “and though those charges would be normally be transferred to the new Divine in the event of her death...”

“There is no Divine.”

“Right again.”

“What of the city then, surely they must have claims to him?” The Inquisitor asks her.

“Son of a bitch, Kirkwall doesn’t have a Viscount,” Varric says, his voice almost a whisper.

“And the current acting Viscount of Kirkwall has not yet deferred to the Inquisition’s judgement of their prisoners,” The ambassador adds, “Though I am sure we could reach out to him should you wish to, Inquisitor.”

Despite all the people that have gathered, silence fall in the main hall. Hawke looks to the ambassador, to Varric, to the Inquisitor, not sure of how to continue. And in that moment, a tall figure steps fluidly through the crowd.

"So are we to let a mass murderer free on technicality?" She says, her voice reeking with power neither physical nor arcane, but power nonetheless.

"Madam de Fer," The ambassador acknowledges, "That's not quite true, consider it more of a delay than an absolution."

"During which the apostate can do whatever he pleases," Madam de Fer replies coldly.

"We could try to imprison him," the ambassador says reasonably, ignoring the way Hawke tenses besides her, "but my advice would be to approach this matter delicately. No matter what we do, we will make enemies on all sides and as an ambassador of the Inquisition, it is my role to navigate such issues with as much grace as possible."

"I quite understand, dear Ambassador," Madam de Fer says, "but if it is only the lack of official charges against him that we must delay bringing justice to all he has killed..."

She pauses, looking past Hawke, directly at the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor gives her a small nod.

"I will make them as the Imperial Enchanter of Orlais, and as the leader of the Loyalist Mages of Thedas."

"Ah," The ambassador says, clearly taken a back. She pauses to check the parchment in front of her, though Hawke doubts there is anything written there that can help. 

Hawke's head is reeling with what is happening in front of him and he wants to grab Anders now and run. But where would he go and how would he escape from the heart of the Inquisition? He clenches his fists, willing them to stay still by his side. 

"If that is the case... though I would still advise on waiting from the acting Viscount of Kirkwall, we can proceed at your will, Inquisitor." And with that, the ambassador steps back, giving the Inquisitor space to speak.

The Inquisitor says nothing for a moment, considering the man kneeling before him. He looks to Hawke, though Hawke cannot fathom what he must be thinking right now.

"And what about you, Champion?" The Inquisitor asks, "what of this matter was it that you've wanted to speak to me about?"

Hawke hesitates. He would have preferred to do this privately but he sees no way out of the situation.

"I would have asked you to cure him." Hawke says heavily. 

The Inquisitor blinks as if he hadn't expected it. "Of tranquility?"

"Yes."

Madam de Fer looks at Hawke, her gaze laden with hidden meanings. She smiles briefly and Hawke knows that he's seen it only because she wanted him to see it. He clenches his teeth. He's never been fond of nobility, even less so now.

"A preposterous suggestion." Madam de Fer comments simply.

"And what would you have his sentence be, Vivienne?" The Inquisitor asks her in return. 

"I am sure I've made my thoughts on the matter clear to you before, Inquisitor," She replies, "Execute him."

 _Over my dead body._ Hawke thinks.

“I suppose you have,” The Inquisitor sighs. He looks to Hawke again, as if waiting for Hawke to say something else but Hawke can give him nothing, no matter how hard he wishes he can. 

“Now would be the time I usually ask the prisoner if they have anything to say in their defence,” The Inquisitor says, now directly addressing Anders for the first time. Hawke notices his eyes flicker up to the damned sunburst on his forehead, red and angry. 

“But given the circumstances...”

“Inquisitor, if I may.” Another figure interrupts as she steps out from the crowd. Opposite Madam de Fer stands Fiona, her worn Circle robes looking stark in contrast to Vivienne’s own icy silver silk drapings. 

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” The Inquisitor greets. He gestures for her to step forward. “If you’ve any insight on this, it would be welcome.”

Fiona bows her head. “I am no longer Grand Enchanter, I’m afraid,” She says humbly, “but I do believe it would be the wisest course of action to follow the Champion’s suggestion.” 

“To cure Tranquility?” The Inquisitor asks again and Fiona nods in confirmation. 

“To deter others from questioning your judgement,” she says, “Anders should be able to speak in his own defence.”

“Nonsense,” Madam de Fer injects from besides her, “his state of mind is of no consequence. And you forget, dear Fiona, that if we do restore this man’s mind, he may pose a risk to the Inquisition.”

“He would not. I will take responsibility if he does,” Hawke says quickly. He endures another look from Madam de Fer, hard and frigid. 

“I quite disagree, Vivienne.” Fiona says her name like she would an old friend, something that Madam de Fer clearly finds distasteful. 

“If you would please elaborate?” The Inquisitor urges and Fiona obliges.

“If I were to hazard a guess, Anders’ state of Tranquility was forced on him by rogue templars, shortly after the explosion of Kirkwall’s Chantry,” She looks to Anders who meets her gaze with the same blankness that Hawke has been suffering.

“Can you confirm this?” She asks Anders in a gentler voice. 

“Yes,” Anders says steadily, “I was captured three days after I was exiled from Kirkwall by Hawke, then made Tranquil on the same night.”

“Is there a point to this?” Madam de Fer asks though her expression does not betray any impatience. Fiona ignores her.

“Three days after First Enchanter Orsino has turned himself into a maleficar and slain by the Champion, and three days after Knight Commander Meredith proved herself to be in possession of red lyrium that had been corrupting her thoughts, rendering her incapable of carrying her duties out as Knight Commander, yes?” Fiona asks again, but to Hawke this time.

“She was relieved of her duty by Knight-Captain Cullen. He can confirm this,” Hawke says, looking at the Inquisition’s Commander now.

Cullen clears his throat before giving a short, “I confirm.”

“I’m sure as the First Enchanter of Montsimmard Circle, you remember, Vivienne,” Fiona continues, “There are only two circumstances under which a mage can be made Tranquil and that is-”

“When the mage proves themselves to be incapable of being Harrowed,” Madam de Fer interrupts smoothly, “or if the mage is a dangerous maleficar, and I ask again, is there a point?”

“Anders was Harrowed,” Hawke says, finding himself breathless now, “and it’s illegal to make a Harrowed maged Tranquil.”

“Quite right,” Fiona agrees, “though circumstances can make such rule more flexible on the discretion of the Knight Commander in charge of the Circle.”

“My point, Inquisitor,” Fiona says, stepping closer to the center where Anders is kneeling, “is that when the templars made him Tranquil, their actions were not sanctioned by both a First Enchanter and a Knight Commander.”

“It should also be considered that the Rite of Tranquility was never meant to be used as a punishment for crimes and yet it is clear that it was a sentence doled out by rogue templars who did not have the station to do so.”

Fiona places a hand on Anders’ shoulder, who flinches visibly. “Is this not true?” She asks him.

“What I did was wrong,” Anders drones, “and I have been made Tranquil for my crimes.”

“It is my advice, Inquisitor,” Fiona says, frowning, lifting her gaze once again, “that you undo the injustice that has been done to him, if only for the sake of giving clarity to your judgement or there will be those who will turn such uncertainties against you.”

Madam de Fer opens her mouth to say something but Hawke can’t take anymore of this. Words are traded back and forth but Hawke doesn’t hear any of them. His fingernails dig into the palm of his hand, making bloody crescents. Let them make their arguments and let them come with any judgements they might find themselves happy with. 

He will not lose Anders again, _he will not._

Hawke jumps when Varric touches his elbow. He looks down at his friend, breathing hard through his nostrils. 

“This might be out of our hands now,” Varric says, making Hawke’s teeth clench.

“I can’t-” Hawke starts to say but Varric hushes him.

“I know Hawke, believe me, I know.”

Just then, the Inquisitor speaks up, loud and firm. He sits upright on his chair, looking very much like a man who belongs in such position of power, despite the gentle nature that Hawke has come to expect. “I have already heard your position on the matter, Vivienne,” He says, “I do not need to be told twice.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Madam de Fer is too good of a player to let her face reveal her feelings. She nods and steps back into the crowd.

“My decision is this.” The Inquisitor looks out into the crowd that had been watching the scene unfold with unwavering strength, daring any of them to come forth now.

“I will not be judging Anders today. Fiona, you will assist me in breaking Tranquility on Anders, and a week after that, no matter how much he or Hawke might claim otherwise, he will stand trial for his actions.” 

Hawke finds himself at a loss for words. He looks to the Inquisitor in disbelief, his heart hammering against his ribs. Had he heard right? 

“And if he does pose a threat in the meantime,” The Inquisitor turns his hard gaze to Hawke, “I will hold you responsible, Champion.”

Hawke swallows, forcing down a hysterical laughter bubbling up his throat. “I would not have it any other way, Inquisitor.”

“Very well, it is settled then.”

“And I will contact the acting Viscount of this decision, with your permission, Inquisitor,” The ambassador says, scribbling furiously on her parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vivienne greatly disapproves


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are had.

The preparations to bring Anders back into his former self begins almost immediately. The crowd dissipates with some encouraging from the Inquisitor, though some stragglers still stick around to catch a glimpse of the infamous apostate who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. It takes a protective snarl from Hawke to force them to leave as well. In no time at all, the main hall returns to its usual bustle with just Anders still sitting where the templars have left him.

“Come on,” Hawke says softly, helping him up.

“Hawke,” Anders calls, looking up, his eyes clear and empty like colored glass in the streaming sunlight.

“What is it? Did the templars hurt you?” Hawke asks but Anders shakes his head.

“I do not think it would be wise to restore my emotions,” He says, his voice smooth and unwavering, “I don’t know how I might react if you do.”

Hawke stares at Anders, at a loss for words. How is he suppose to respond to something like that? He misses Anders, _his_ Anders, not this sad, broken husk of a human being who hates nothing, loves nothing, feels nothing. Anger flares up like lava inside his guts and for one brief moment, Hawke wants to grab hold of the man in front of him, tell Anders that he _does not care, he will have Anders back, damn the consequences._

But as quick as it's come, the urge evaporates almost immediately, like smoke in a wind.

“Hawke,” The Inquisitor calls from across the room where he had been quietly conversing with Fiona, “Meet us here tonight, we will make arrangements to cure Anders.”

“So soon?” Hawke asks, blinking.

“I have urgent business in the Dales that needs seeing to and I had already planned to ride out tomorrow,” The Inquisitor replies, giving a small, sad smile. “I hadn’t really expected something like this to happen, but I’m sure I am leaving Anders under capable hands.”

“I understand.”

The Inquisitor gives him a brisk nod and Hawke takes it for the dismissal that it is. 

Hawke doesn’t bothering returning to his room with Anders. The entire Inquisition would have heard by now, the news of the Champion of Kirkwall and the company that he keeps. Instead he grabs a bite from the kitchens, leading Anders to one of the abandoned battlements that has yet to be marked for restoration. People give them a wide berth as they pass, not quite pointing and whispering but enough so that Hawke can feel their gaze following them in the back of his head. He looks behind him to see Anders following him close by as he had done for the past weeks. Without the need to hide his face inside a hood anymore, Anders’ hair flows loosely behind him, long and dark, from so much time indoors.

“You should get your hair cut,” Hawke comments absently, wondering if he’ll get to see it summer golden blonde again, one day soon. “You always preferred it shorter.”

“Perhaps,” Anders says.

It doesn’t quite hit Hawke, what had transpired just earlier today- the Inquisitor’s decision to allow Anders to be cured, the stalled judgement. Instead they swirl somewhere above Hawke’s head like half-remembered dream. They eat in silence, far away enough from the main part of Skyhold that the only noise around them being the howling mountain winds and the occasional shriek from the ravens flying overhead. 

Surprisingly, it is Anders who breaks the quiet.

“I don’t know how I will react to what has happened to me,” He repeats, voice half-smothered in the wind, making him sound almost wistful. A few snowflakes start swirling around them, the afternoon sky that was once so blue, greying around them. Where had the sun gone?

It’s only then that Hawke remembers just what happened earlier today. Was it only today, or perhaps yesterday? It seems so long ago now, with all that has happened. But Hawke can still recall the sound of Anders’ panicked breathing, the feeling of Anders’ hands on his bare thighs, Anders’ lips on his skin.

“Why do you think that?” Hawke asks, letting the cold air carry away his voice. He can barely hear himself. A part of him madly wishes that Anders won’t answer him, that he won’t hear Hawke’s words in the quickening weather because it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter anymore what Anders thinks. A part of Hawke does not wish to hear, because he already knows.

Hawke watches as Anders’ pink tongue darts out to lick at his chapped lips. The wind picks up to herald the oncoming storm, what was a few drifting snowflakes starting to quickly thicken into a real snowfall. There is something inevitable about the weather in Skyhold, Hawke thinks, though he had grown up as a mage, around other mages, who were capable to summoning such forces of nature that summoning ice in the middle of summer was hardly a task for them. But it cannot compare to the rush of dark clouds and the furious winds that encompasses everything, drowning out even the sound of Hawke’s heartbeat.

But it does not silence the words that come tumbling out of Anders’ mouth, the rush of blood to Hawke’s head so loud that he mistakes it for the winter tempest.

-

By the time the sun sets, the winter storm has fully descended upon Skyhold, blanketing everything on the ground white, the sky dark and black long before night. Hawke and Anders make their way across the empty courtyard, other inhabitants having retreated into their respective corners to wait out the storm. It’s quiet and the world seems colorless.

The Inquisitor meets up with them in the main hall and leads them down some stairs choked with dust and cobwebs. 

“We figured it was safer to do this away from prying eyes,” He says, opening a door that’s only marginally less dusty than the other doors.

The room isn’t anything special, with usual four stone walls and a low ceiling. There are broken and rotting furniture stashed away in the far end of the room, no doubt having been pushed there to prepare for whatever ritual is needed to cure Anders of his Tranquility. The floor has recently been swept and mopped, and is clear save for a few brazier in the corners to give them some light. Fiona greets them with a nod as they enter, accompanied by a bald elven mage that Hawke has only seen around Skyhold, but never spoken to.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” The elf says, acknowledgement and greeting in one. He hold his hands out to Hawke, who takes it with some apprehension. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“This is Solas, he is our resident spirit and Fade expert.” The Inquisitor says, closing the heavy door behind him.

“I thought my expertise could come in handy,” Solas says, his hand clasped behind his back, “Though I am also highly interested in how one might restore a lost connection to the Fade.”

“An expert in spirits and Fade?” Hawke asks. “Are you a spirit healer?”

Solas lets out a small laugh. “No, not quite. I am an apostate. I’ve not studied in the human Circles but I have travelled the Fade in my dreams and learned much that are not taught by the Chantry.”

Hawke blinks once, remembering the elf-blooded boy from Kirkwall. “A Dreamer?”

“Ah,” Solas pauses, his eyebrows raised, “It is not everyday that I meet a human with such knowledge.”

“There was a child, in Kirkwall,” Hawke motions vaguely with his hands, not wanting to recount the whole story here and now, “Ask Varric.”

“Of course,” Solas nods once and turns to converse quietly with the Inquisitor.

“Curing Tranquility… is not as difficult as one might imagine,” Fiona says. Hawke and Anders sits down on the floor in front of her at her gesture. Anders lowers the hood of his cloak, covered in wet splotches of melted snowflakes. “All it takes is for a spirit to reach out across the Fade, touch the severed mind to restore the connection.”

“I doubt things will be so simple,” Hawke says, “things in my life rarely are.”

Fiona shoots him a small smile. “Indeed, I fear that if we call upon any spirit, we might attract malevolent spirit with much worse intention than to simply heal his connection to the Fade.”

“We must be careful to call out to a spirit in the Fade, a noble one who might not be so keen on leaving the Fade, and I do not know if Anders will be able to resist possession in his state.”

Hawke remembers the foreign voice that had come out of Anders in their venture into the Fade, how unfamiliar it had been at the time, the strange loudness that had somehow seemed to suit Anders’ words better than his own voice. Justice had been unrelenting in his pursuit of Feynriel, hostile and righteous to a fault when faced with demons. His presence was laced in everything that Anders did, so much so that Hawke did not know where Anders began and Justice ended, and perhaps it did not matter in the end.

Where is Justice now?

“My understanding is that Anders was a spirit healer, yes?” Fiona asks Hawke, continuing when he answers with a nod, “It’s possible that there are probably a few spirits that still remember him, perhaps beings that he called enough often enough to form a friendship with them.”

“Fascinating,” Solas mutter behind them. 

“I suppose it’ll be my job to seek these spirits out?” Hawke asks though he doesn’t really need an answer.

“Would you trust anyone else to do it?” Fiona asks instead.

“No.” She smiles at him.

“Good. Now, let us begin.”

-

Hawke had been raised an apostate- his training consisted of whatever tutelage Malcolm could afford to give him without attracting the attention of templars and whatever tomes that could be bought from travelling merchants that did not recognize the true value of such books. He does not have any real formal knowledge of magic, just a handful of lessons and improvised spells that he’s taught himself on the fly and whatever the Circle may have lectured about the Fade is unknown to him. Hawke supposes that his venture into Feynriel’s dream probably gave him more experience than most but that doesn’t mean that he knows precisely what he’s supposed to be doing.

The Fade is different than Hawke remembers it. There is no reason for the Fade to look like a hazy version of the Gallows now, but he’s at least expected the familiarity of Skyhold or Anders’ clinic in Darktown, perhaps a location from his own memories. Instead he’s surrounded by a dense fog, so thick that he begins to feel claustrophobic even though there are no walls trapping him in. Beyond the fog, there are indeterminate shapes that loom in the distance. Hawke thinks they might be buildings or mountains perhaps, too far to reach and too uncertain to be a clear destination to him anyhow.

He walks forward, if it indeed is the direction he’s going, if the direction matters at all. There is a strange echoing noise in the distance, indistinguishable but a constant presence like the choking fog that doesn’t seem to end. The air is cold against his skin but it also feels wet and heavy and it takes conscious effort to breathe in and breathe out with each step he takes. Though he can’t see past below his knees on the account of the fog, his steps hit even ground, solid, almost like paved road. It occurs to Hawke then that he might walk off a cliff and not even see it coming. But Hawke finds himself unworried.

Fade is shaped by thoughts and emotions. For as long as Hawke remains focused on his task, the path will take him where he needs to go.

It takes Hawke an hour (or had it been more? Or less?) of walking blindly in the fog for him to realize that the _fog_ isn’t a fog at all- the smoke thickens and thins in places, pushing and pulling at itself when Hawke moves to touch it, as if shying away from his hands. When Hawke moves his legs forward, the fog shifts forward as well. Clearing a path for him, Hawke realizes.

“Where are you taking me?” Hawke asks, speaking up for the first time in the Fade. His voice echoes, his own question coming back to him. 

The fog does not answer and Hawke presses on.

Hawke doesn’t tire, though he feels as if he’s been walking for hours now. He doesn’t feel lost though he’s not sure where he is headed. It feels like he’s following a guide and he’s confident that he will eventually get to the place where he need to be, where Anders needs him to be.

The fog pushes at him and Hawke lets it.

At the first spark of impatience, when Hawke thinks _shouldn’t I have arrived?_ that he realizes that he already has.

There is a circular space in the middle of the fog, as if covered by a glass dome that the fog cannot pass through. There is a familiar figure sitting in the middle, feathered shoulders slumped, as if deep in thought. Hawke steps out of the fog and into the circle.

“Anders,” Hawke calls.

Anders turns to look at him and Hawke almost recoils. 

“Justice,” Hawke swallows.

“I am,” Justice says, his voice was the same booming unfamiliar voice he had heard years ago. “But I am also Anders.”

Justice’s forehead is unmarred- he looks like the Anders in Hawke’s memory, tall and strong, willful, not the starved gaunt shadow of Anders who had been following Hawke like a ghost. How ironic, Hawke thinks, that the one he’s been missing like a limb would be Justice.

“I know why you are here,” Justice says. His voice is full of sorrow and Hawke wants to weep at the sound of it, gratified to see Anders’ face affected by emotion.

“Will you do it then?” Hawke asks, forcing his words through the knot in his throat.

Justice looks into Hawke’s eyes, blazing, pupil less blue that seems to burn a hole in Hawke’s mind. It’s painful to look at him like this now, like a picture of something Hawke will never get back. He’s sitting on a crate, Hawke realizes, and all he needs is a dagger in his hands that he will never use.

“I cannot,” Justice says at last, “Even if I were able… It would be an injustice.”

Hawke can feel himself fill with rage at the familiar words, now thrown against him and Anders.

“Why not?” He asks hotly, “Anders gave you his body willingly, you were his friend!”

Justice says nothing but his face crumples in sorrow. Hawke hates seeing it on Anders’ face. How dare he use Anders’ form like this?

“Where were you when he needed you?” Hawke is shouting now, suddenly overcome with anger, not entirely directed at Justice. 

“Do you have any idea what he’s been through?” Anders’ quiet recollection earlier that day rages inside Hawke. And then suddenly a gust of wind picks up, scattering the fog surrounding them. Fat snowflakes pelts past so fast that they’re nothing but a thousand white streaks howling past between them. They find themselves in the middle of a snowstorm, bitter cold and furious.

“You wish to blame me for what has befallen Anders,” Justice says, unblinking.

“No! I want you to put him back together again!”

“And therein lies the injustice, Hawke.” The grief with which Justice says his name halts Hawke in his tracks and his anger falters. 

“You think that by returning me to him, you can undo the damage done and return him to his former self.” Justice looks down at his own body as if just realizing what he looks like. “But Anders has been sundered in more way than one, _I_ have been sundered.”

“Anders and I are two halves of one being but once we were once two, separate and whole.”

Justice stands, stepping closer to Hawke. For all the winds whipping past Hawke’s ears, he can hear Justice’s words clearly, as if they are the only two voices in existence.

“If I reach out across the Fade to touch his mind,” Justice swallows, a gesture Hawke finds all too human, “we will become one again, and Anders and myself will never be able to heal.”

“So what, then?” Hawke challenges, “why am I here?”

“You are here because you’ve sought me out, not because I have led you here.”

Hopelessness threatens to choke Hawke. He has not seen another spirit in his journey here. What if he cannot find another spirit to help Anders, what would happen then? What is the point of all this? 

He looks back at Justice, still peering into his own eyes. 

Then, Justice smiles. It looks as if he wants to cry instead.

“Fear not, Hawke, there is another who will help.”

It’s just then that Hawke notices a small figure crouched at Justice’s feet. Had that always been there, this whole time? When the figure unfurls itself, Hawke realizes it’s a cat. It’s an old cat, with frosted eyes nearly blind from age but its gaze somehow manages to pierce Hawke.

“An old friend.” Justice says fondly.

The cat saunters over to Hawke, brushing its body past his legs and winding its tail around his ankle. It meows once, turns around neatly and takes a seat at Hawke’s feet.

“What-” Hawke starts but Justice interrupts him.

“Go, Hawke, do not linger here any longer.”

Justice lifts up his hands and presses it against Hawke’s cheeks before Hawke can think to stop him. His hands are shockingly warm. A few snowflakes land on his face, melting, looking like shed tears.

“I will watch over you both, love.”

Hawke wakes up.


End file.
